


Sibling Rivalry

by Percygranger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Multi, Restraints, Stockholm Syndrome, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Percygranger/pseuds/Percygranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft both want Gregory Lestrade. What happens when they both get him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12826.html?thread=70445850#t70445850) on the Sherlock BBC kinkmeme. Beta-ed by kathecello. My first story for Sherlock BBC.

“I know what you did.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Lestrade was tired. It had been a long day, tying up the ends of a long case. He had just finished debriefing the newest pain in his arse: a young, and now-former (he hoped), cocaine addict by the name of Sherlock, who had come to the station only after Lestrade threatened a drugs bust at his new flat.

“Your past,” Sherlock’s smile would be frightening, if Lestrade was the kind to spook easily. He wasn’t, though.

“What about it?” Lestrade sighed wearily, feigning less concern than he felt, although a small frisson of fear bothered him. What had the boy wonder dug up? Surely he couldn’t observe anything. His past was years behind him now, and as cleaned up as he could make it.

“In my experience, most officers of the law,” Sherlock’s tone was cutting. He never could manage to find respect for ‘most’ people. No matter how hard they were trying, they were still slow, blind, and most importantly, boring, “don’t reach the post of DI with several pornography films in their past.”

Lestrade tensed at this, couldn’t help himself. Stopped himself from checking the door was shut. What if they were overheard? He was suddenly glad that Sherlock had taken forever to arrive, coming in as most of the day shift was leaving. Forcing himself to relax, he shot back, “So? It’s all said and done. How do you know my bosses aren’t aware?”

Sherlock huffed, some of the predatory languor leaving his sprawled body. “Oh please, no board in their right minds would promote a sergeant to a position with so much media exposure if they knew he had ticking time bombs in his history,” He shifted closer, closing in for the kill, “and you wouldn’t be looking at the door with such apprehension if your team knew. Waiting for Sally to come in with one last report, are we?”

Lestrade kept his eyes locked with Sherlock’s, “They wouldn’t believe you. They don’t even like you. And you’re not very trustworthy either, are you? An ex-junkie who dropped out of uni.”

Sherlock hadn’t moved, still laid out like a lion after a meal, “I have evidence. Tapes,” he smiled lazily, “Witnesses.”

Lestrade felt his shoulders start to curl in defence, “What do you want? Drugs?” His voice had become the growl of a trapped animal. Though, if that had been what Sherlock wanted, surely he would have used this earlier?

“Of course, but you’d mess it up and get caught. You’re an honest man... well, as honest as you can be. However…” The baritone voice slowed, then stopped. Sherlock was such a drama queen, even while threatening a man’s career. Lestrade wished fervently for a smoke and a large glass of whisky. Hell, make that a bottle. He entertained himself with visions of getting completely sloshed, waiting the damn theatric git out.

Sherlock broke first, unable to contain his desires. “You,” His voice wasn’t quite as smooth or deep as normal, if you were listening- and Lestrade was. Sherlock clearly wanted something badly. It made no sense, though.

“…me?”

“Yes! You, I despise repeating myself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t! Idiot…” Sherlock rolled his eyes extravagantly before leaping out of his chair, striding around the desk that separated them, and grabbing Lestrade by the lapels. He wrenched the inspector out of his chair and pushed him against the wall. Lestrade’s involuntary “Oi!” was overridden by Sherlock’s “You. Your body. Give me access as I please, and no one will ever know your sordid past.” The tone was mocking: mocking his incomprehension, his past, or everyone else caring about it, Lestrade didn’t know which. Probably all of the above.

Lestrade swallowed, halted in the act of pushing Sherlock off. “You… want to have sex with me?” He didn’t strip the disbelief from his tone. He’d never seen Sherlock with anyone, male, female, or otherwise, and his general social… shortcomings suggested he’d never had any kind of relationship bordering on normal.

Sherlock stepped back. “Sex?” He sneered, “No. I need a live subject to experiment on from time to time. You’ll do.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows went up, “Experiments?”

A sigh, and Sherlock began pacing, gesturing as he talked, “Must you be so abominably thick? I’ve been increasing my knowledge base for future cases. Experimentation on live subjects is nearly as important as use of the deceased,” He came in close again, crowding Lestrade, “You let me do as I wish, and your little secret never comes out. Simple. Have you never been blackmailed before, Inspector?” If Sherlock’s tone was any lower, any more scathing, it would have cut flesh off of bones.

“You can’t pay anyone for this?”

Sherlock scoffed, “Why would I do that when you’re here?”

“I- fine,” It wasn’t ideal, but, compared to his first thought, he could cope. His career was his life. He’d do a lot to save it from an untimely death.

Sherlock’s mood immediately changed, “Excellent, the first thing I wish to-“

“I have conditions.”

“What? You’re being blackmailed, Lestrade, you don’t get a say in the terms.”

Now it was Lestrade’s turn to scoff. “You permanently damage me, and there’ll be no more cases, Sherlock.”

“Yes, fine, no lasting harm. Now I need your-“

“And this cannot interfere with my work in any way: no late nights, no visible marks. I can’t have my team getting suspicious.”

“Like they notice anything unless it’s spoon-fed to them,” 

“Sherlock…”

“All right, if you insist,” Sherlock didn’t sound very convincing. “I have an experiment in mind right now, and you weren’t going to go home for another hour, were you, Lestrade?” That damned predatory smile was back, and Lestrade couldn’t stop a shiver this time. He’d just put himself at a self-proclaimed sociopath’s mercy. Lestrade still wasn’t sure he believed him about that, but Sherlock was obviously socially inept, and could be damned unfeeling. What had he got himself into?

“Take off your shirt.”

“What? Why?”

“No questions. They’re boring and take too long. Do as I say or I will give the Superintendent copies of your films and witness contact information.”

Lestrade’s head jerked, “Fine, bastard, I’ll do it.”

“Less narration. Shirt off. Now,” Sherlock gestured impatiently.

Lestrade began undoing the buttons on his dress shirt, his suit jacket already abandoned hours ago. He felt a damn sight more self-conscious doing this now than alone or even for a lover.

“Yes, good, completely off. Your undershirt, too,” Sherlock went to Lestrade’s chair and lowered himself into it. “Kneel.”

Lestrade’s mouth opened with another protest, and shut again at the darkening of Sherlock’s expression. He knelt, using the desk to slow his descent.

“Come here,” Sherlock’s index finger extended and curled, beckoning lazily, now that he was assured of Lestrade’s obedience.

Lestrade shuffled forward, sardonic expression firmly in place. Sherlock replied with a small smirk, spreading his legs until they hit the arm rests of Lestrade’s chair.

“Now undress me.”

“I am not having sex-“

Sherlock’s voice suddenly rang out clearly, “Oh, is that so, Inspector? Pornography is so degrading-“

“Shut up!” Lestrade said, trying to keep his voice down.

Sherlock paused, waiting, expression expectant.

Lestrade wavered, but then got up and sneered, grabbing his shirt, “No. I said nothing sexual, and I mean it, Sherlock. You can’t do something like this to me.”

“I most certainly can,” Sherlock replied, face blank, and he began ranting loudly on the evils of pornography, refusing to shut up even as Lestrade crowded him against a wall, batting down attempts to cover his mouth. Sally began knocking at the door, asking if Lestrade needed help.

“Fine!” Lestrade hissed at Sherlock, desperate, “I’ll do it, I’ll do it.” Sherlock quieted, and Lestrade, rebuttoning his shirt hastily, went to the door to reassure his Sergeant that everything was fine. His consultant was just a bit tetchier than usual.

He counted a full minute after closing the door, violently shushing Sherlock, who had sat down again in Lestrade’s chair, with a glare when he tried to speak. Sherlock stayed silent, watching intently. Then, for the second time, Lestrade removed his shirt, and went to his knees behind his desk.

He undid Sherlock’s fly, then began easing his trousers down, trying to avoid touching anywhere sensitive. Sherlock stopped him once they pooled at his ankles, and gestured to his pants, face expectant.

Lestrade grit his teeth and pulled those down as well, not looking at what he’d just exposed. God, he wasn’t ready for this, not again. He couldn’t-

Sherlock’s fingers grabbed his chin, and he startled at the unexpected touch, fighting. Sherlock held on, knees closing, holding his arms to sides, and guided his head up to meet his gaze. Sherlock’s smile was ugly now.

“You know what to do.”

“How is this an experiment?” Lestrade said, stalling, and he really did want to know. He’d never known Sherlock to lie before, except on a case.

“This is a study of how sexual assault changes the reactions of a test subject. Now, get on with it.”

“You can’t be- You’re serious? You’re raping me without a condom for an exp-”

Sherlock’s hand lashed out, his open palm catching Lestrade full in the face, snapping his head to the side violently, “I’m clean. You obviously are, too, and I will not repeat myself again. No more talking.”

Lestrade couldn’t bring a hand up to rub his stinging cheek, but ran his tongue against the inside of his mouth, nothing bleeding. He glared at Sherlock, and, not seeing a way out, leant forward and began licking the soft flesh he had just exposed. Sherlock’s cock started stiffening quickly, and Lestrade began sucking on it, as well. Once upon a time, he might have enjoyed the sensation of it growing longer as he pulled slowly off it, tonguing the head. Now, though, all he could feel was sick, ugly resentment, part of him cataloguing how to escape if Sherlock let go, while another was starting to wall itself off, rebuilding old, long unneeded defences.

He worked Sherlock’s flesh long and hard, occasionally giving his jaw a break by sliding down the shaft to mouth soft, loose balls. It seemed to take forever to make the man come, despite his best efforts, trying to end it as quickly as possible.

Sherlock’s body started to stiffen tellingly, and he gritted out “Swallow!” before coming. Lestrade obeyed his instructions, doing his best not to taste anything.

God, he was so fucked.

 

******

Lestrade felt less battered the next day. Looking in the bathroom mirror, his lips weren’t puffy anymore, his throat barely sore, but his eyes looked hollow. His cheek hadn’t swollen at all. Despite the shock and the sting of it, the slap hadn’t been hard. He avoided his own gaze for the rest of the morning after that first look.

God, what was he going to do? His mind had been churning on this since last night, starting after Sherlock had left him to pick himself up off the floor with a distant “Acceptable.”

He couldn’t tell anyone: out himself, his past, destroy his career. Could he? His job was his life now that his wife was gone. His team was made up of good people, but no one he could confide in. He was their leader. He wouldn’t, couldn’t destroy their trust in him. Lestrade almost choked on the thought, but it might even be worth it, if Sherlock stayed around. If, if these ‘experiments’ actually turned into experiments, not just, well, that, then it might actually help when it came time to solve cases, right? The man was undeniably a genius. An evil genius, apparently. He snickered a bit at that, trying to keep tears back. He was not going to cry over this. This was nothing compared to before, he could deal with it.

Sherlock called him in, well, texted him, two days later, a Saturday. “Come at once. SH” didn’t make him move off the sofa. But the next, “Was it your uncle or your cousin?” did. He opened the door of Sherlock’s flat with a precision borne of anger.

“Alright, I’m here, what did you want this time?” Lestrade spat.

Sherlock looked up from his position, spread out on the floor. “Good. Took you long enough. Take your shirt off.”

“I said-“

“Shut up!”

The words felt like a blow. Lestrade restrained a flinch, fixed his eyes on a corner of the room, and shucked off his shirt; just a jumper and undershirt this time. He waited. Whatever the bastard wanted, he wasn’t helping.

“Come here,”

Lestrade walked to Sherlock’s head, scowling down at him, trying to make it as obvious as possible that he didn’t want to be here.

“Obvious. Boring,” Sherlock muttered, and then curled, lightning fast, tangling his legs with Lestrade; bringing him down on his back, Sherlock on top. Lestrade started to struggle automatically, bringing his arms up and out; breaking the hold Sherlock had on his shoulders; then attempted to roll out from underneath him. Sherlock’s hands immediately found a new place to grip, his neck, refusing to be unseated.

“Stop this,” Sherlock’s voice rang out authoritatively. He was smirking slightly.

Lestrade slowly, grudgingly, stopped fighting, seeing little chance for victory. He didn’t relax, though, not with what had happened last night so fresh.

Sherlock’s mouth quirked, “Now that I’ve established my dominance…”

Lestrade huffed.

“Let’s try this again. Your uncle or your cousin?”

Lestrade’s face slammed closed, his body tensing. “What’s it to you?”

“Knowledge, of course. I know this, and I know what you’re more likely to react to. Personally, I’d guess the uncle, as the older generation would be more likely to have the connections for filming pornography, not to mention his tendencies towards younger men.”

Some shift in Lestrade’s expression must have given him away.

“No? It’s never quite perfect. Your cousin must have been an enterprising soul.”

Sherlock sat back and stood up, “Go to the table and sit down.”

Lestrade didn’t move, “What are you going to do?”

Sherlock grimaced in irritation, but answered, “I have to give you an allergen panel before I begin any chemically-based experiments. Your hospital records were remarkably unhelpful in this respect, and it would throw off my results for you to suddenly stop breathing unintentionally.”

“That better have been a joke,” Lestrade watched carefully, making sure Sherlock wasn’t going to do anything else before rising, and heading to a table piled with an alarming number of chemistry apparatus. It seemed like the first experiment was over. At least, Lestrade hoped so.


	2. Mycroft

Sherlock, to Lestrade’s utter lack of surprise, did not keep well to the terms of their agreement. For the next month, he called Lestrade in nearly every weekend or day he was off, provided there were no cases to occupy him, and often kept him late into the night. But, apparently recognizing that he wouldn’t get called in otherwise, managed not to maim, poison, or molest him again. And, God, Lestrade hated being grateful for that. Thankfully, Sherlock was the last person he could imagine becoming attached to. His first time back at a crime scene with the beardless wonder was nearly normal. Lestrade had managed to put up a good front of his nearly-customary-by-now weariness and irritation, while Sherlock…well, how could you tell if Sherlock was acting unless he started acting nicely?

After all this, Lestrade’s quasi-arrest was an unpleasant shock.

Hadn’t he had enough happen to him in the past year? He had to go and get ‘politely’ talked into a car by men carrying badges that made his warrant card feel irrelevant? Jesus.

They took him to the east end of town, ushering him into the poshest place he’d seen, well, ever. Murder didn’t often happen here, because not many people had this kind of money. He was shown into an office that spoke of taste for the classics. Lots of space, a wall filled with old, expensive books, beautiful, masculine curios tastefully scattered, an imposing desk, and, standing beside it, a well-dressed man, a little younger than Lestrade, with a sturdy figure. He would be unimposing except for the way he stood: the correctness of his posture, self-assured but relaxed, almost lazy, and the look in his eyes. They shared that penetrating quality of Sherlock’s, though if he had the same disdain for the masses and their idiocy, it was hidden beneath a veneer of impenetrable politeness.

“Do sit down, Detective Inspector. I trust your journey was a pleasant one?” the man inquired, smiling without showing his teeth. They sat together, the man into a high-class desk chair, Lestrade into an over-stuffed armchair that matched the deep reds and browns in the room. It managed to be uncomfortable despite its looks.

“It…wasn’t bad, Mr…” Lestrade wasn’t sure he’d get an answer, but it was worth a try.

The man inclined his head as though to acknowledge a point. “I do apologize, Detective Inspector, my name is Mycroft Holmes,” Lestrade barely managed to keep his shock off his face, Sherlock had family? “Unfortunately, one cannot avoid such unpleasantness when one has attained a certain, if minor, position within our government.”

A pause. “I see,” Lestrade said, carefully, “And how are you related to Sherlock, Mr. Holmes?”

Mr. Holmes gave an indulgent smile, as if praising a small child for reciting his addition tables. “Sherlock is my younger brother, Inspector Lestrade, and half of the reason I have requested your presence today.”

Lestrade could think of little to say to this that wasn’t rude or pushy, certainly out of place here, and so settled for a polite, “Ah,”

“Sherlock and I are not on the best of terms, Detective Inspector. However, I cannot help but worry about him. His choice of playmates, until now, has not been very healthy.”

“Wait, playmates? You think Sherlock and I are-”

“Oh, I know you don’t, except the once,” Lestrade’s jaw tightened at that. “There is very little you can keep from me, Inspector.”

“You joined New Scotland Yard twenty-two years ago, for unstated reasons. Personally, I think it was partially a lark, and partially to rebel against your mother, who has a minor record and a history of dating small-time criminals. One of whom was your progenitor. Furthermore, since your wife passed two years ago, you’ve moved into a small flat, only going out with your team when not at work. You smoke, and have been trying to quit until one month ago. In fact, your habits were stable to the point of tedium until my brother came into your life. Now, he calls, and you come. You give him cases to keep his boredom at bay, and he solves what you could not otherwise. He has brought you to your knees, literally, and now you cannot get away. I applaud his choice. So much so, in fact, that I cannot help but take you for myself.”

Lestrade’s outrage at the intrusion into his life had shifted to an anger he’d thought buried over Sherlock’s actions, exploding at Mycroft’s last words.

“No! This is- wrong. First your prat of a brother coerces me into his experiments, breaking our terms at the beginning and not stopping since, and now you are going to take me like I’m some sort of toy?” Lestrade imbued all the disgust he felt into those words, “I am not yours, and not his, either. He may have me over a barrel at the moment, but it won’t last. Why are either of you even interested?”

Mycroft’s reaction was limited to a small huff of amusement, easier seen than heard. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in this matter, Gregory. And if you do not know why, I certainly couldn’t enlighten you.” Mycroft’s expression grew more intent, “Sherlock made you his through such crass measures, but I prefer more civilized ways. Appealing to your sense of loyalty, for instance?”

Prickles of cold went down Lestrade’s spine at Mycroft’s words, distracting him from his anger. Lestrade straightened in his chair, trying to ease the feeling, “Loyalty to whom?”

“As you are estranged from your own family, as well as your late wife’s, there is truly only one example to use. Your team seems quite loyal to you; following you despite their dislike of your new consultant. What would they do if they realized what Sherlock had done? Perhaps you could guess. Your Sergeant Donovan, in particular, seems eager to bring my brother pain, one way or another. And I, as Sherlock’s closest relative, would have no choice but to retaliate, perhaps bring them to justice, would I not?”

The prickles turned to ice, freezing Lestrade in place. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe at the realization. Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t just destroy his career, but everyone else’s, everyone he cared about, unless…

“And what do you want?” The words came out brittle and quieter than he intended; defeated.

Mycroft smiled gently, acknowledging his victory without fanfare, “Everything that Sherlock refuses to take, my dear Inspector.”

 

******

And thus, Gregory Lestrade, bisexual male, 42 years of age, Detective Inspector with New Scotland Yard, found himself plied with the attentions of two different men. Sherlock texted him, and he went; not wanting to deal with the constant badgering the ‘consulting detective’, as he was now calling himself, was capable of. Also, Mycroft had made it exceedingly clear what would happen if he refused to get in the car with his ever-so-politely intimidating assistants, who he would be sending around “in the next week. I will endeavour not to put too much strain on your schedule, but needs must.”

Lestrade was dead on his feet. He and his team had finally managed to close a frustrating case, submitting all the evidence, interviews, and relevant paperwork that squarely pinned the guilt for a murder on a man who had managed to duck several convictions, previously. It had taken a week’s worth of long days to get it all perfect, but it was finally done. He had arrived at his flat, only to have Sherlock text before he could change for bed. Come at once, bring ice. SH

Of course that couldn’t wait. The last time Lestrade had tried to beg off, Sherlock had come to him, breaking into his flat and conducting the experiment on site. The mess had been horrible, and Lestrade had not slept easily since, knowing how quickly Sherlock had made it inside. So Lestrade went, and suffered through hours of dunking various portions of his extremities into ice water with different topical solutions applied before or after. The cold certainly hadn’t improved his mood, and he very nearly snapped and told Mycroft’s assistant exactly where she could stuff her ‘request’ as she pulled outside his apartment just as he returned.

The ride to Mycroft’s house was quiet except for the soft click of buttons being pushed. Lestrade never quite knew what to say to his quasi-kidnappers, and he couldn’t sleep with someone he didn’t trust in the car with him.

Mycroft was waiting in the parlour. This was fast becoming a routine. If it was evening, Mycroft would offer him a glass of whisky. Perhaps they’d chat, or sit in silence, watching the fire. Once their glasses were empty, Mycroft would lead them to the bedroom, and Lestrade’s education in what Mycroft enjoyed would continue.

The first time had been a simple hand job, by Mycroft’s standards. Lestrade thought Mycroft was much like Sherlock in his ability to complicate anything, including sex.

“Take your clothes off for me, Gregory,” Mycroft instructed, watching the proceedings avidly while removing his own tie, suit jacket, and dress shirt, leaving his trousers and undershirt on. He then stood, and circled a stiffly standing Lestrade, inspecting what he had gained.

“More than acceptable, I must say,” Mycroft smiled, and this time, it almost seemed real, “On the bed, if you please.”

Lestrade strode to the bed, sitting down gingerly, avoiding Mycroft’s gaze.

“There. Not so bad, hmm? Move back a bit,” Mycroft came in close, lining up for a kiss, “You are a wonderfully distinguished-looking man, Gregory,” Lestrade muttered a quick denial to this, and Mycroft tutted, “I’m unsure how you could misunderstand this, but people do tend to be blind about themselves.”

Mycroft kissed him then, slow and soft, convincing Lestrade of the uselessness of tensing up. He started to relax, _no choice, no choice,_ no choice _, might as well make it as painless as possible_ , at least until Mycroft started pushing him back on the bed, hands moving from caressing his hair to his shoulders, testing the muscles there, stroking with his thumbs.

“Shoulders and arms are my favourite part of a man, Gregory. Yours are so nicely maintained. All that motorcycle riding, I expect. I love to see the muscles shifting under the skin, feel the power of them under my hands,” a small grin appeared, and those hands started to smooth lower, “but other parts are intriguing, too.”

Mapping Lestrade’s body, first with hands, then with lips, frequently returning to kiss him back to relaxation, painless is good, yes? Mycroft didn’t avoid any particular part of Lestrade’s body, mouthing and ghosting his hands over everything: the insides of his elbows, ribs, nipples, hips, balls, thighs, cock, ankles, his feet, even, but he didn’t linger anywhere particular.

“Next time I’ll learn your back side, I think. It’s pleasant to have something to look forward to, don’t you think?”

Mycroft’s murmur against Lestrade’s shoulder made Lestrade hum, cautiously, in agreement. _Going slow, that’s...unexpected, but good._ Then Mycroft’s hand had drifted down to Lestrade’s cock, and stayed there, patting and stroking softly, until Lestrade broke, and pushed up, wordlessly demanding more. Mycroft stopped.

“Gregory, this is not going to be a one-sided encounter. I will continue, but you must reciprocate.” Mycroft’s tone reminded Lestrade of an older lady he’d met during an investigation, steel under velvet. Beautiful on the outside, soft even, but unyielding when pressed.

“It’s not that difficult. Touch me,” Lestrade reached a slightly shaking hand towards Mycroft’s side, “That’s right. Feel free to explore. You need to be well-versed in my body as well, if this is to work.”

Lestrade was so tightly focused on his own hand, moving it up slightly, trying to work up the will to ‘explore’, _God, this isn’t going to be a onetime thing, is it?_ that he jumped when Mycroft kissed him on the forehead, his hand resuming its previous work.

“I-“ Lestrade stuttered, not knowing what he was trying to say, “please-“ don’t do that, He had to finish the thought mentally. Mycroft probably hated “nos” and requests for some consideration just as much as Sherlock.

Surely, though, Sherlock was going to find out about this. Would he think of this the same way as Mycroft? Sharing probably wasn’t high on the man’s list of good deeds to master. Lestrade shuddered at the mental image of a thwarted, incensed Sherlock . There wasn’t much telling what he’d do. Greg could only hope that Mycroft might shield him from the worst of it... And wasn’t that an unpleasant surprise. Stockholm Syndrome setting in far too early.


	3. Sherlock and Mycroft on Sharing

Throughout the next month, though, despite Lestrade’s worries, Sherlock didn’t comment on his new situation. Lestrade wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disturbed by this. Surely Sherlock would say something, knowing that his brother was picking up where he had left off?

Lestrade eventually realized that there was a pattern to Mycroft’s summons. He was never picked up until after Sherlock had used him in an experiment. Also, he was either picked up from his flat the same night, or the morning after. This realization came with a question.

Lestrade was on his hands and knees, being slowly, torturously prepared by Mycroft’s fingers.

“Mycroft-hmm, Mycroft?” Those fingers managed to brush his prostate before he could form a full sentence.

“Yes, Gregory?” Lestrade didn’t know how he did it, but, no matter the situation, Mycroft nearly always managed to sound calm, in control. Lestrade had to work hard to get more than him breathing heavily, and counted it a victory if he did.

“I- oh, um, I wanted to know! ...Why you always pick me up after Sherlock is done,” Lestrade started rushing his words, trying to get it out without embarrassing himself.

“You noticed and asked. Very good, Gregory,” Mycroft’s tone was pleased, and then added another finger. Lestrade grunted, and was sure Mycroft was wearing that smirk he got every time Lestrade ‘used his brain correctly’, as Sherlock might put it. He hated that look.

“I’m sure you can put it together yourself. What does Sherlock do after using you in an experiment?”

“He, he does two things. He kicks me out, or starts a new experiment,”

“And does he call you after you leave?”

“No...Oh!” Lestrade sighed as Mycroft removed his fingers, taking a couple of deep breaths to relax, trying to prepare himself for a cock.

“Yes?” Mycroft was shifting on the bed behind Lestrade, straddling his legs and lining himself up. Lestrade could imagine it clearly. Almost didn’t have to, Mycroft had made him watch them do this in a mirror a few times back.

“He doesn’t know about this? How can he not know about this? Sherlock sees every bloody thing, especially if it’s incriminating or embarrassing!” Lestrade twisted to look Mycroft in the face. Mycroft stared back at him calmly, and it twisted Lestrade’s gut to see him naked, broad torso bare, cock erect in his own hand, not even breathing hard yet. Damn the man.

“Down, Gregory,” Mycroft’s words held an assurance that he would be obeyed, and Lestrade turned to face the bed again.

“Sherlock doesn’t know because I am very careful to erase all traces of my presence from your person and your life,” Lestrade felt the pressure, and the stretch, as Mycroft started to push in. He bore down and relaxed. This had gotten a little easier as time passed, as Mycroft had done it again and again; proven he wasn’t about to start hurting him physically, but he still couldn’t just let go; relax like he trusted the man. He had never been one to pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t.

“My brother,” Mycroft started thrusting gently, “has never shared his toys well.”

Lestrade growled internally at the reference, and shoved back on Mycroft’s cock forcefully, trying to erase thought with action.

Mycroft grabbed his hips, slowing them down, controlling the pace, “If he had been using you sexually, as well, I certainly never would have done this. Poaching is not allowed in this game. A true shame that would have been; you’re such a lovely fuck, Gregory.”

Lestrade struggled to keep from tensing at this. It’s never going to end. When had his life gone so wrong?

Oh yes, when he met Sherlock.

He was going to have to do something about this.

 

******

Despite his conviction that nothing would change unless he did something about it, Lestrade couldn’t force himself to make a move. He didn’t enjoy Mycroft’s attentions. Well, his body might, but it didn’t really get a say in the matter, did it? Mycroft was frighteningly good at making him enjoy their time together. It had been three months since this whole affair had begun, two since Mycroft had joined in. Things were at a stalemate, and the only way Lestrade could see this breaking was if he did something. The problem was what to do. If he told Sherlock about Mycroft, Sherlock might not care, or he might care far too much, and decide he wanted all of Lestrade. At least Mycroft was gentle, not like Sherlock had been. But Mycroft wasn’t real, either. Would it be better to live with an honest rapist?

God, it was a mess. So, Lestrade did nothing. Wondering when or if the stalemate would ever be broken. It was, of course. It was just a matter of time.

Sherlock:

Sherlock decided to break his routine. He hadn’t noticed anything consciously, but a doubt was niggling at him. This was extremely odd, as Sherlock catalogued everything he saw, connecting the dots unconsciously. To have a feeling without a conclusion, without conscious knowledge, was almost beyond belief.

“Skull, what am I missing? Think!” Sherlock paced around the room, holding his confidant in one hand; trying to tease the right bits of information forward so that they could be connected to a familiar pattern: facts from facts.

“Lestrade, he’s acting subtly different. He’s more or less resigned to my attentions; puts up a good front during cases, but flinches when I get too close in private; after-effects of the first experiment I performed. Really remarkable, the influence sex has on the human psyche. You’d think his new paramour would have helped, but the flinches haven’t faded. If anything, they’ve gotten worse. He’s lost weight; not eating properly. What am I missing?”

The skull was less than helpful this time, unfortunately, and Sherlock couldn’t find any new ideas, so he decided to follow Lestrade. It was obvious Lestrade planned his dates around Sherlock’s summons, meeting his lover 1-12 hours immediately following an experiment. Possible conclusions: Sherlock’s actions had an aphrodisiac effect (a possibility, since Lestrade nearly always had intercourse), or that Lestrade was trying to avoid Sherlock’s notice. A laughable idea, but in line with previous blind idiocy Sherlock had observed in humanity before. He wished Lestrade was better than that, but the common man never failed to disappoint.

Oddly, the first time Sherlock followed, nothing happened. He watched Lestrade’s flat, posing as a homeless person, and noted Lestrade seemed on edge, leaving for a run at half eight. Had Sherlock been spotted? He resolved to be subtler next time.

One week later:

Sherlock slid into the seat next to Lestrade, glaring silently at Mycroft’s assistant, who barely looked up before returning to her phone.

Sherlock turned the glare on Lestrade. “This is who you’ve been seeing? Of course Mycroft couldn’t resist tweaking my nose by fucking you after I let you off the hook.”

Lestrade had stiffened and paled at Sherlock’s appearance, and now sat stonily, staring fixedly at a corner.

The ride to Mycroft’s (and Sherlock’s? Lestrade still had no idea if the place was ancestral or bought more recently) place was excruciating. Sherlock was muttering under his breath, and occasionally leaning forward to touch Lestrade, which unnerved him more than he liked. He kept batting Sherlock’s hands away, eventually letting out an “Oi! Hands off!” that Sherlock paid no attention to.

Sherlock was obviously familiar with the house, leading the way to the sitting room once they arrived. Mycroft took his brother’s arrival in stride.

“Sherlock, what a wonderful surprise. Had I known Gregory would lead to seeing you more, I would have let you know about our relationship sooner.”

Disregarding Mycroft’s words, Sherlock went to the heart of the matter, “Poaching, from you, Mycroft? You should know better.” Sherlock’s voice lowered to a predatory growl at the end of the sentence.

“It’s not poaching if you aren’t doing anything, brother.” Mycroft rose from his armchair to fetch three glasses. “Drink?”

Sherlock’s mouth had opened in shock. “’Not doing anything’!? I fucked him right at the start. That was not nothing.”

“It was one time, and you did nothing afterward. You cannot blame me for taking advantage.”

“It was an experiment, Mycroft, studying the effects of a single instance of sexual aggression on a British middle-aged male in an authority position. You’ve completely ruined it!”

Lestrade shrunk into himself, hearing it all described so clinically. Was that all he was good for in Sherlock’s eyes? A source of cases and experimental data? Well, what had he expected? He didn’t dare close his eyes, but he dearly wanted to.

Mycroft’s expression didn’t change in response to Sherlock’s rant. “I apologize for ruining your experiment, Sherlock, but it doesn’t change the terms of our agreement. We do not use the same sexual conquest concurrently. Despite your protests about it. You weren’t touching him, and that meant I could do as I liked,” Mycroft’s mouth quirked, “And I did.”

Sherlock looked away, beaten. “At least I deserve some recompense for my experiment. Months of data, useless, Mycroft.”

Mycroft looked indulgent, “Oh, very well, what would you like?” He lifted a finger at Sherlock, who was trying to speak, “I am not giving you a lab at St. Bartholomews.”

Sherlock looked put out at being beaten to the punch, and then brightened, “We could share him.”

Lestrade looked up, alarmed, “Wait, share? I will not-“

“Shut up, Gregory.”

“Shut up, Lestrade.”

The voices came at nearly the same time, in the same tone. Lestrade jerked at it, two pairs of far-too-penetrating eyes watching him intently, exerting their will over his life. Lestrade began to panic. _Both of them? I can’t, it’s not possible no I won’t_

Mycroft’s face softened visibly, sensing the man’s panic. “It’s all right, Gregory, not much different than just me,” Mycroft crossed the room to touch the other’s face. Lestrade sat stiffly, panting slightly. “I won’t let him hurt you. Not like last time.”

Lestrade jerked, pushing away Mycroft’s hand, “You’ll protect me against him, will you? What about you? Christ, how is this my life now? I’m leaving, I’m done,” He pushed up, off the sofa, and started towards the door. Mycroft’s voice stopped him halfway.

“Gregory, your circumstances have not changed.”

Lestrade’s jaw clenched so hard it creaked.

Sherlock joined in, voice careless, “I’m still perfectly willing to ruin your career if you run, Lestrade.”

Lestrade’s head started moving side to side, as though looking for an exit, but he couldn’t find one. He flinched at a hand on his arm.

“Gregory, don’t be like this,” don’t bring up unpleasantries Mycroft’s voice seemed to be saying, “It’s just one night. One time, and then things will return to normal; just you and I. You can bear it, just for me, can’t you?”

Lestrade’s head slowed, stopped, the fight leaving his body. Fighting was useless here, he’d learned that already. “Fine, have your fun, but don’t expect anything from me. I’m not here, not really. I’m just a game piece between you two, aren’t I?”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh, “Surprisingly perceptive. I like it when they surprise me.”

Lestrade heard the creak of a chair as he rose, footsteps, and then Sherlock was touching him before he could turn. Not like that first night. Sherlock had barely touched him then except to restrain and subdue him. Now, the younger man was sliding his hands under Lestrade’s arms, across his stomach almost in a hug, his cheek sliding between Lestrade’s shoulder blades. The gesture was unmistakably proprietary. Lestrade shuddered slightly, but bore it.

Mycroft’s hand left Lestrade’s shoulder and he moved into Lestrade’s line of sight. Mycroft seemed slightly excited, which put Lestrade on edge again, making him breathe faster. “Mycroft...” he began, but didn’t know how to end the sentence.

“Shh...It’ll be all right, dearest.” Mycroft place a finger on Lestrade’s lips; then gently grasped his chin and pulled him in for a kiss.

Sherlock’s head moved up, obviously watching his older brother. His voice sounded pouting, jealous. “What have you done with him, Mycroft? I’ll need to know so we can even the score.”

Lestrade wanted to look at Sherlock, see what jealousy looked like on the younger man; try to get a gauge on how bad this could get, but Mycroft held him in place, controlling the kiss, making it linger.

“Enough! I want a turn,” Sherlock pushed Lestrade, making him stumble to the side, interrupting the kiss. Mycroft looked bland, perhaps slightly displeased, “And you will get it, Sherlock. There is no need for violence here.”

“No need, maybe, but what if I want a little slap and bang, ‘croftie? What are you going to do then? Trying to protect him is useless. I always get what I want in the end.”

“Perhaps, but what you want doesn’t matter near as much as what I will allow, Sherlock. I am your elder, I know more, better than you about what will keep our toys from breaking. Surely you can listen to me for once. It will keep your ‘subject’ in better shape. He might even last the year,” Mycroft’s tone went slightly scathing on the last line.

Lestrade’s stomach flipped at the implications of those words. _He’s-they’ve done this before._

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically, “Fine. I’ll play by your rules tonight, big brother, but that means nothing in the future.”

Mycroft smiled neutrally, “Of course not.”


	4. The End

It began simply enough. Sherlock tried to start undressing Lestrade in the sitting room, but Mycroft overruled him and they moved to a bedroom. Not the usual one Mycroft and Lestrade used. This one was larger, with a bigger bed to match.

“I’m tired of waiting, Lestrade. Strip,” Sherlock’s voice was simultaneously childish and commanding. It was one of the more terrifying sights Lestrade had seen: a thirty-something acting like a thwarted ten year old. Mycroft looked on, pleasant and slightly predatory. He took a breath and started taking off his clothes, the motions familiar by now. When he looked up again, Sherlock had a triumphant expression, eyes lit up like a child looking at presents on his birthday. Lestrade looked away, pushing down the last of his clothing.

Gathering his courage, he said “Well, are we waiting for something else, then? Let’s get this over with.”

Sherlock strode forward, stopping directly in front of Lestrade, staring into his eyes. “You don’t have control here, Detective. I say what we do and when.”

“Not quite true, brother dear,” Mycroft interjected from near the bedroom door, breaking the building tension. His smile was most definitely not condescending. “You agreed to play by my rules tonight.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes, of course, how could I forget your supreme reign over humanity? Either do something, or stay out of my way, Mycroft.”

“Very well. Sherlock, I assume you want to even the score, so to speak, by copying Gregory’s and my exploits? I don’t think we can fit all of that into one night, what a shame.”

Lestrade had never heard this tone from Mycroft before. Was he gloating? He broke in, trying to distract himself from the enormity of ‘everything’.

“Can we get a move on? I have work tomorrow, and don’t think you’re getting any cases if I’m late,” He stared pointedly at Sherlock.

“As if you have a choice about calling me.” Sherlock’s tone was vindictive. He moved in swiftly, gripping Lestrade’s shoulders and kissing him firmly on the mouth, forcing open his lips and taking control of Lestrade’s mouth with his tongue. His hands slid down Lestrade’s chest, tweaking nipples with moderate pressure, and then harder when that garnered no reaction. Lestrade groaned slightly, the sound muffled between them. Sherlock’s hands became more adventuresome, slipping past ribs to land on slightly bony hips, thumbs tracing the creases there. His hands wandered to the small of Lestrade’s back and his arse, fingers dragging. He squeezed once, suggestively.

Sherlock started moving them both towards the bed, shifting their bodies like the lead in a dance. Turning them around once they arrived at the bed, so that Lestrade faced away from the door, he grabbed Lestrade’s hands and placed them at the buttons of his trousers, an obvious cue. As Lestrade undid his slacks, Sherlock made quick work of his shirt, unbuttoning it deftly and throwing it to side, then stepping out of his trousers and pants after Lestrade pushed them down. He looked to the side, beyond Lestrade’s peripheral vision.

“Are you going to join in, or stand there like a lump all night?”

Lestrade couldn’t see Mycroft’s reaction, but from Sherlock’s smirk, he probably wasn’t pleased. Just what he needed, the man who was supposed to be protecting him _Ha!_ getting pissed off. He almost twisted to look, but taking his eyes off a naked, predatory Sherlock wasn’t the best of ideas.

“Well? This is your party, Sherlock, are you going to choose our game tonight, or cry?” Mycroft’s voice, much nearer than before, made Lestrade jump slightly.

Sherlock’s face twisted in confusion, “Why would I cry? I haven’t done that since- never mind. You always were traditional. I suspect the first thing you did together was a hand job? Dull. Tonight Lestrade is going to get me hard, then ride me until I come. I want his hands bound behind his back during the last. Do you have any handcuffs?”

Mycroft’s hands were running up and down Lestrade’s biceps, grounding him during this recitation. “I have a pair in the other room, and me?”

Sherlock flapped a hand, “Do as you like, brother, after I’m done.”

“Very well, little brother,” Mycroft was deliberately tweaking Sherlock. Lestrade could feel it, see it.

Sherlock looked Mycroft up and down, “If you’re so unenthusiastic, Mycroft, you could leave.”

An excellent riposte. Lestrade felt his shoulders tighten. He wouldn’t, would he?

Mycroft laughed softly, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world, my dear. You so rarely indulge in these games. I simply must observe your technique. Besides, I’ve never had Gregory as, what do they say? Sloppy seconds? It will be most educational.”

Lestrade restrained a shudder at the words, the reminder (as if he could forget) that he’d be dealing with two people tonight. One of whom was not inclined to gentleness, though apparently restrained by Mycroft’s rules, whatever those were.

Sherlock smiled thinly, and tilted his head towards the bed, leading Lestrade to it. Mycroft went to fetch the handcuffs, leaving a quick caress remembered on Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade closed his eyes briefly, savouring what pleasure he could take.

“Eyes on me,” Sherlock’s baritone sounded slightly annoyed at Lestrade’s lapse of attention. Lestrade looked at him, trying to convey how much he disliked this. Sherlock smiled more genuinely, “Get the lube and come here.”

Lestrade found the small tube easily in the bedside table. Taking the last step slowly, he started crawling across the bed to reach Sherlock, who had settled in the middle, head in one hand, the other beckoning. He took hold of Lestrade once he was in easy reach, pulling him closer, closer, until they were chest to chest, breathing each other’s air. Sherlock initiated another kiss, this one searing, possessive, demanding participation. Lestrade did shudder then, unable to stop himself. Sherlock drew back, eyes dark with lust, and urged his hands down to their proper place in this drama. Lestrade willed himself strength, squeezed some lube onto his palm, and began working at Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s gaze alternated between his hardening cock and Lestrade’s face. Lestrade felt uncomfortably exposed. What was Sherlock reading from this?

Sherlock rolled them over, so that he was on top, and instructed Lestrade to continue, no matter what. “If you stop before I say, I will be very unhappy with you, and Mycroft’s rules most definitely allow for punishment,” Bracing himself on his knees and one hand, he began to explore Lestrade’s features, even poking a finger into his ear, causing Lestrade to flinch, but not stop stroking.

Fingers stroked underneath his jaw, soon followed by lips and teeth, quickly creating a sore spot that Lestrade knew would be visible in the morning. He tried to jerk his head away.

“Don’t leave marks! I don’t need questions at work. Bastard.” The last was said as Sherlock’s head shifted lower, and he latched on just a few centimetres lower. Lestrade responded by jerking his hand a bit rougher, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.

Mycroft’s voice interrupted Lestrade’s anger.

“I leave you alone for one minute...” And Sherlock’s head lifted suddenly, lips parting from the bruised skin with a pop. Sherlock turned a falsely innocent face to his brother.

“Oh, have you never done this to our inspector? That’s right. You couldn’t, because I would have been much more suspicious. Because you were poaching,” Sherlock’s tone turned dark, and he returned to his activity, lower this time, mouthing, biting at the junction of neck and shoulder.

“Ah! Sherlock-” Lestrade tried to shift, but Sherlock held him down, digging his teeth into the sensitive skin, not quite breaking it. He only stopped when Lestrade ceased fighting, lying tense and unhappy under the consulting detective.

Sherlock’s head rose again. “You can stop now,” referring to Lestrade’s hands, which had slowed with his capitulation. His tone suggested it should have been obvious. Lestrade glared at him, and wiped his hand pointedly on the sheet.

Sherlock’s right hand rose, palm up, “Handcuffs,”

Mycroft came nearer, smile very small, placing the requested item in his younger brother’s hand. He had lost his suit jacket somewhere, probably hung it in his closet while retrieving the restraints.

“Would you mind terribly if I prepared him?”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped to his brother, searching. There was a pause, filled only with the breathing of three men, and the slight sounds of Lestrade moving to touch his new marks. He watched the other two intently. Expression briefly unsatisfied before it flicked to neutral, Sherlock turned away, tone careless, “If you like.”

Still holding the handcuffs, Sherlock grasped Lestrade’s biceps, ignoring his gasp as the cold metal touched his arm, and shifted them over again, leaving Lestrade scrambling to find his balance on top of Sherlock. Mycroft joined them on the bed, kneeling near Lestrade.

Lestrade settled on his haunches, not wanting or needing to loom so near Sherlock.

Grabbing the handcuffs, Sherlock pushed the first open with a rasp, and quickly caught Lestrade’s wrist in it. Lestrade snarled slightly, but didn’t resist as his other wrist was pushed behind his back, and Mycroft finished restraining him. Lestrade yielded, minimally gracefully, to the hand on the middle of his back, pushing him down, against Sherlock’s chest. He couldn’t see Sherlock or Mycroft’s face in this position, and it made him nervous.

“Shh, shh, dearest, need you to relax for me now...” Mycroft’s voice took a soothing lilt that often happened when Lestrade wasn’t actively resisting, but still couldn’t let go. Lestrade felt himself melt slightly, more of his chest touching Sherlock’s. Then there was a slick finger entering him, sliding in easily enough, preparing his hole to accept more. And it did. Two wasn’t much of a challenge, but three and four took time and some fondling to become comfortable. Sherlock, apparently deciding that Lestrade shouldn’t get too relaxed, went searching for his ribs. Lestrade was quite ticklish, and couldn’t suppress laughter while the evil, clever fingers danced over sensitive areas. “Stop that!” He gasped, “Please.” Sherlock stopped slowly, his silence both pouting and triumphant. He moved to other, more pleasurable areas, resuming his explorations and actually helping his brother for once.

Still, Sherlock was shifting impatiently under him by the time Mycroft finished, and had moved to stroking his own dick to keep it full and hard. “Hurry up!” He snapped, eventually. Mycroft made a soft sound of assent, and withdrew his fingers, leaving Lestrade feeling almost uncomfortably empty, trying to grasp something that wasn’t there. Sherlock’s hands grabbed his biceps again, pulling him up, positioning him. Then he commanded “Down.”

Soon there was a new pressure at his hole, pushing him open again, filling him even more than the fingers. Lestrade took measured breaths, doing his best to relax, hoping not to tear. That would be just the thing to cap off the night. His thighs flexed, trying to keep a steady pace.

Sherlock’s finished his first thrust full of barely restrained impatience, and he only waited for three breaths until demanding “Up! Ride me fast.”

Lestrade started moving, trying to increase the pace at a tolerable level. He didn’t enjoy rough sex, but Sherlock was insistent, meeting his pace and pushing it faster. Soon the sound of flesh slapping filled the air, bringing back a few memories that Lestrade really didn’t want to dwell on right now. The present was enough to deal with. He tried to make it good for the other man, make it over that much more quickly, but Sherlock, again, was slow to orgasm. Either his self-control was extraordinary, or he really had to work to get there. Lestrade was huffing and sweating; his thighs burning by the time Sherlock gave a low groan and went still. He sighed, sinking down, thankful that this part, at least, was over.

Sherlock pushed at Lestrade, grumbling sleepily “Off.”

Lestrade rose up, carefully disengaging them; wincing at how sore he was, not even noticing the wet sounds. He shuffled on his knees to the other side of the bed, where Mycroft was sitting, watching. He turned around carefully, still handcuffed. “A bit of help here?”

Mycroft produced the key and released one wrist, but only to pull his arms around near the headboard, which had many convenient wrought iron bars twisting through it. Lestrade didn’t resist. He was tired, and there wasn’t any point in trying to get away anymore. He shivered slightly as the handcuffs closed again, securing him to the bed, and Mycroft’s hands began trailing down his body.

“Your shoulders look magnificent like this, Gregory, flexed, showing off like a Greek statue,” Mycroft’s teeth bit into a shoulder, not leaving a mark. Just testing, it seemed. Lestrade flinched anyway. “Sherlock didn’t give you much pleasure, did he?”

“’M righ’ here, Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbled, “Wha’s the point,” he yawned, “in making ‘im enjoy it? He doesn’t want to, and I don’ care.”

“Yes, yes, and that’s why you have to work every time to make him submit. You see, pleasure confuses. It makes a man wonder if he did really want it after all, and it is most helpful in alleviating fear and tension, which is naturally the enemy of long-term liaisons.”

Lestrade watched the exchange, couldn’t help but listen, and was tensing more and more as his stomach sank, burning. “That’s all it’s for, then?” He growled, resisting the urge to yank at the ‘cuffs. “You made it good just to stop me resisting, keep me off-balance?”

“That’s not all, of course. Pleasure is also a wonderful way to reward you for a job excellently done, Gregory, strengthening our bond. I’m not as mercenary as that.” Mycroft’s smile was conciliatory, placating.

Lestrade stared at him, trying to figure out what was truth and what was lie, but that was basically hopeless with Mycroft, he knew. It was too confusing, and he was tired. “Can we move on? I have work. I’d like some sleep before then.”

Mycroft’s smile shifted to something more predatory, “Of course, on your stomach, then.”

Lestrade shifted to elbows and knees, straightening his body out on the mattress, hiding his wince behind an arm as his thigh and bum muscles shifted.

With a murmured “There you are,” Mycroft moved beside him. There was a sound of lube being squirted and applied to flesh, then a slick hand held his hips as he was entered a second time that evening. Lestrade couldn’t hide his stiffening; his hole hurt. Mycroft placed his other hand on his lower back, soothing, until he relaxed slightly.

Mycroft’s pace was slow and leisurely, luxuriating in how easily he slid in and out, then he quickened, but never getting as fast as Sherlock had demanded. He aimed for Lestrade’s prostate, hitting it more often than not, causing Lestrade to moan slightly. A hand reached around, grasping the half-filled cock gently, pumping in time with Mycroft’s thrusts.

Lestrade felt sick, the pleasure and pain swirling together with what he’d just learned. “Please, no.” He whispered, afraid of making him angry, of making it hurt worse.

“I’m sorry, my dear, but you’ll just have to bear it.” Mycroft’s tones were affectionate, familiar, and Lestrade could do nothing but listen, and endure.


	5. Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A faster-paced, more BDSM-y end. Unrealistic, but reality's not what you go to the meme for, is it?

_“Enough! I want a turn.” Sherlock pushed Lestrade, making him stumble to the side, interrupting the kiss. Mycroft looked bland, perhaps slightly displeased, “And you will get it, Sherlock. There is no need for violence here.”_

_“No need, maybe, but what if I want a little slap and bang, ‘croftie? What are you going to do then? Trying to protect him is useless. I always get what I want in the end.”_

Mycroft looked at his brother for a long moment and sighed heavily, a silent condemnation, “Very well, we’ll do it your way tonight, but I’ll have your word that he’s mine after this. You don’t know how to take proper care of your playmates,” He completely ignored Lestrade’s huff of displeasure at the title, “and I... enjoy the Inspector.”

Sherlock looked momentarily surprised by the admission, and then scowled, “I’ll want a replacement.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied smoothly, “you’ll have your pick of subjects.”

“Fine,” Sherlock almost spat the word, looking suspicious, not sure he had gotten the better end of the deal.

Mycroft smiled back, pleasant mask in place, “Shall we adjourn to the bedroom?”

“No. I want him here,” 

The petulance was overwhelming. Sherlock was determined to wrest every concession he could get from his brother. Lestrade, who had been watching the exchange closely, a bit chilled at it, maybe relieved, he couldn’t be sure, decided to voice his thoughts; gambling on his knowledge of Sherlock.

“Here’s fine with me. Less work. Don’t have to deal with a bed,” Sherlock’s expression went dark, and Lestrade realised he’d made a mistake.

Sherlock pulled on Lestrade’s shoulder until they faced one another. He crowded in, doing his best to intimidate. “Don’t try to predict or manipulate me, Lestrade, you don’t get a say in what we’re doing tonight,” He looked up at his brother, standing innocently to the side, “A bedroom would be lovely, Mycroft, after we’re done in here. Your stolen bit of rough-“ Another shove sent Lestrade staggering into the wall, “needs a lesson in respect.”

After they were through in the sitting room, Lestrade was missing half his clothing and had gained a few bruises. His lips felt puffy and stung a bit, too. Sherlock hadn’t (wouldn’t) come, but that hadn’t stopped him from making use of Lestrade’s mouth.

They went to a different room than Mycroft and Lestrade generally used. Lestrade wasn’t very surprised; Mycroft was very particular about his spaces.

Sherlock manhandled Lestrade out of the rest of his clothing, shoving trousers and pants down roughly.

“Mycroft, get me-“

“Yes, yes, I know.”

Sherlock slowed down for a bit, exploring. Lestrade left his hands at his sides, deciding Sherlock would (and could, thank you) demand whatever touching he wanted. His playmate for the night was thorough, testing every inch of his upper body with pressing fingers and the occasional pinch.

Lestrade jumped slightly when Sherlock grabbed his arse and pulled him in for a deep kiss. Despite the distraction, Lestrade mind couldn’t stop whirring with speculation and irrelevant thoughts. He was hard, didn’t want to be, but some things couldn’t be helped. He’d learned that long ago. Carpet-muffled footsteps came up behind him, and he gasped in surprise as Sherlock spun him around, pushing him chest-first into Mycroft, his cinnamon-y scent rushing to meet his quick breaths, keeping his arms pinned behind him. There was a sudden feeling of cold around his wrists and the distinctive sound of handcuffs closing.

Lestrade jerked his head around to look at Sherlock angrily. “Sherlock. Let me go. Handcuffs aren’t safe for this kind of playing.”

Sherlock’s grip on Lestrade’s forearms firmed as a satisfied smirk crossed his face. “How tragically misinformed, the toy thinks it can tell me what to do.”

Lestrade snarled and twisted, trying to break Sherlock’s grip and get in his face, hurt him. Sherlock and Mycroft stopped him from getting anywhere. “I am not your goddamned toy!”

Sherlock laughed, loud and deep, the sound seemed to echo mockingly. “You almost make me wish I had been fucking you the past few months, Inspector. You’re so more much fun to bait when sex is on the table.”

They stared at each other for a minute, Sherlock self-satisfied and cruel. Lestrade desperate; unwilling to give in.

Mycroft cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

Sherlock scowled, “Don’t rush me, brother. We have all night.”

“If that’s what you wish, Sherlock, but we all have duties to attend in the morning, and not all of us are impervious to lack of sleep.”

“I’ve never understood how you can stand letting your body rule you,” Sherlock said with disgust, and pulled Lestrade from Mycroft’s grip. Once they reached the bed, Lestrade was propelled face first on the mattress. He hit the bed with his chest, unable to bring his hands forward to cushion his landing. The noise of impact, his breath rushing out, overwhelmed his senses for a few seconds. He was quickly made aware of the rest of his body when Sherlock kicked open his legs, which were still off the bed.

Lestrade tried to rear up, helped a bit by the stability of his wide stance, but was forced back down by a hand between his shoulder blades.

“Look at him, hard even though he doesn’t want it. You’ll really give up fighting eventually, I expect,” Sherlock’s voice drawled, “I wonder if we’ll get there tonight? Would you like to try, Lestrade?” Sherlock had moved closer, speaking directly into Lestrade’s ear, Lestrade felt a shiver pass through him at the menace in the tone.

“No,” his voice came out a rasp, and he growled to get it working again. “No. I said no! I mean it. I’m not going to stop meaning it. I don’t care-“ the rest of his sentence was muffled into intelligibility as Sherlock’s long-fingered hand clapped over Lestrade’s mouth.

“You ‘enjoy’ this, Mycroft? You aren’t the type to enjoy combat. Tuh!” Sherlock had successfully avoided being bitten, but Lestrade, somewhat childishly, had licked him. He took his wet hand from over Lestrade’s mouth and slapped the back of his head. Lestrade immediately began to shout threats interspersed with cries for help, figuring he had nothing to lose at this stage. His attempts to kick or move off the bed were hampered by his position.

Sherlock’s sneer was impressive, from what Lestrade could see peripherally, and he shoved his hand over Lestrade’s mouth again, trying to keep him quiet, but not succeeding terribly well.

“Mycroft! Get me a gag and a paddle. If our Inspector wants to act like a child, we can treat him like one.”

Lestrade couldn’t hear over his own struggles and semi-muffled shouts, but the sudden presence of a rubber ball in his mouth testified that Mycroft had once again followed orders. He struggled to spit it out, of course, but Sherlock had pulled it tight, and fastened it before he could do more than start. Why was he so surprised that Mycroft had bondage gear? He’d never used it on Lestrade, but then, he’d never needed to, had he?

“Help me move him. Hold his legs,” Sherlock’s clipped orders had Lestrade manhandled over his lap, in prime position for a spanking, which Lestrade hadn’t been in since his childhood. He was pinned by a hand on his neck, and pressure on his legs. Was Mycroft sitting on him?

The first blow came as a surprise, hard enough for the sound of it to ring in the room. Lestrade flinched unintentionally; hands clenching and unclenching. Damn, Sherlock had more muscle than he’d guessed. His cock brushed Sherlock’s lap as he un-tensed, and he suppressed a groan. This was not _on._

It was a surprisingly silent ordeal, with the sound of hard slaps and heaving breaths the loudest thing in the room. Eventually, it started hurting enough to bring noises from Lestrade’s throat without permission. Something wet trickled down his cheek, and he wondered briefly if Sherlock was drooling on him before realizing he was crying. God, it hurt. Would it never stop? Sherlock didn’t seem to be tiring, each blow just as hard as the last, with the shortest of pauses between them.

Eventually, Lestrade relaxed, too exhausted to continue, riding the pain, accepting it in a way he’d done before. This was his world now, being hurt for little reason beyond trying to be his own man. His attempts at independence weren’t working. Had they ever? He started to push his cock against Sherlock’s legs intentionally then back as each blow landed, craving more stimulation. It didn’t matter what kind.

“There you are, all loose and ready for a good, long fuck, aren’t you now?” Someone crooned. Oh, right, Sherlock. Lestrade’s muscles tried to tense against the threat, but couldn’t. Lestrade didn’t feel entirely present, floating somewhere in his own head.

The pressure on his legs lifted, and he moved them restlessly, restoring circulation, not trying to go anywhere, too lost to make a plan that involved resisting.

A hand pushed against his calves, “Stop that, no more moving until I say. Do you understand, Lestrade?”

Lestrade hummed back in response, shuddering slightly as the hand moved up to his very hot _Burning. Can skin burst into flame on its own?_ and sore arse.

“I’ll bet you’re a great fuck. Those little noises you were making? You’re going to make them again soon. He’s a proper slut, isn’t he, Mycroft?”

“Of course,” Another hand smoothed down Lestrade’s back, hitting the blockade of his arms, and running back up them to his shoulders. Lestrade arched into the touch, concentrating on the feel of it, the pleasure of being praised and petted after being threatened and scared for so long.

The hands unbuckled the gag, taking it away, and pulled his hips up, folded his legs beneath him, stretching his punished arse and making him hiss. “Please...”

“It’s begging now, isn’t that sweet? What do you want, hmm? Do you need a good, long fuck, little toy?” A finger pushed in, slick with lube. Lestrade cried out at the pleasure.

“Yes, more...”

“More...what?” Two fingers inside now, hooking and pulling out, hitting something that sent sparks of pleasure through Lestrade. He grunted contentedly, then whined when three fingers were forced into him too early. “Answer the question.”

“I- More, please?” Lestrade sighed as the three fingers drew out and only two came back, stretching wide, but not causing the burn three fingers had.

The rest of the preparation went the same way, with Sherlock and Mycroft forcing answers out of a pliant Lestrade, who would do anything to please, to get the promised pleasure. Finally, finally he was rewarded. A thick cock he was unfamiliar with this way stretched him open, wider than he’d been stretched with fingers. He whined, trying to push back against it and forward away at the same time. Sherlock held his hips still and refused to stop until he was buried. He stayed inside for a moment, savouring the feeling? Lestrade breathed deeply, slowing his exhales, clenching and relaxing with each breath around the intrusion.

Sherlock pulled out a bit too early for it to be entirely comfortable, but the pleasure was over-ruling the pain at this point. He set a drawn out pace, pushing in slowly, but pulling out abruptly. Lestrade tried to quicken the pace, get his prostrate stroked a bit, but Sherlock refused to change, digging fingers into his heated backside to reprimand his toy for being demanding.

Lestrade surrendered more easily this time, sinking back into the floaty space he’d found earlier, taking in all the sensations of being fucked. At some point, soft hands took his jaw and pushed a cock into his mouth. Sherlock and Mycroft set a complementary rhythm, pushing the body between them onto the other’s cock.

Sherlock came first, his pace getting faster, then stuttering towards the end. He pulled out halfway through, spurting warm come on Lestrade’s still hot arse.

“Not a bad fuck for an old man. We’ll see about another round later,” With that, Sherlock crawled to the unused portion of the bed, collapsing on his side to enjoy his hard-earned endorphins, and watch his brother at work.

Mycroft pulled carefully out of Lestrade’s mouth. Lestrade had done his best to please, covering his teeth and using his best techniques, including a few Mycroft had taught him. He was a bit glad for the respite; his jaw ached from being held open too long. Another dick pushed into his arse, thankfully freshly covered in lube. He moaned at the sensations flooding him: soreness, from his arsehole and his bum as hands caressed it, slick intrusion and fleeting pleasure as his prostrate was brushed. A warm chest leaned onto his back, and a voice sounded next to his ear.

“Gregory, you’re going to help me roll you over, now.” And he did, the manoeuvre a bit tricky while still impaled, but they managed.

Mycroft pushed his knees to his chest, and Lestrade held them there, familiar with this routine.

“Look at me, love.”

Lestrade’s eyes opened, blinking slowly in the low light of the room. When had he closed them? Mycroft’s face was soft, affectionate. He started moving, setting a more urgent pace, his need denied too long. His hand reached down, fisting Lestrade’s cock gently, pacing it with his own thrusts.

“Come for me, Gregory; show me what it feels like.”

Lestrade let go, not having realised he’d been holding back before. Waiting for something. It took precious few pulls of Mycroft’s soft hands before he came, grunting softly.

Mycroft’s own eyes fluttered and closed, overwhelmed by Lestrade’s body pulsing around him. His thrusts became more urgent, rough, until he froze over Lestrade, groaning softly. Lestrade felt his chest compress as Mycroft relaxed onto him, lying on top of him as he rarely did.

It took several minutes for anyone to speak again. Mycroft broke the silence.

“Most enjoyable. Thank you, brother. Gregory is rarely this pleased to comply with my wishes. Perhaps I will allow another encounter to take place in the future.”

“Hmph, you were always too soft to get the results you need, Mycroft.”

“Back to insults, then? Well, one cannot gain the world in a day,” Mycroft’s tone was philosophical.

“I never stopped insulting you, weren’t you listening? Sex makes you stupid,” Sherlock got up, delivering this scathing commentary whilst searching for hastily discarded clothing.

“Maybe, but perhaps stupidity increases enjoyment of the act. Leaving so soon?”

“Your nauseating display of emotion put me off further activities.”

“As you like, Sherlock, do be so good as to call the next time you wish to visit,”

Sherlock huffed, finished his dressing, and made to leave.

Mycroft called after him, “Goodbye, brother mine. Be safe.”

“When have I ever been safe?”

“Right, try for me, then?”

“Never,” the door closed, not quite slamming.

Mycroft sighed, condensing all his disappointment and worry into a single act. “That boy will never grow up, I fear.” He turned to Lestrade, who was still dozing, unwilling to wake and face the world, however changed for the better it was now. “At least I have someone to protect him on the ground,” He kissed Lestrade’s forehead, noting the shudder that ran through the man’s frame at the gesture. “Sleep while you can, my love, we have busy days to face tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated!


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